


Jonah and the Whalestone

by Experimental



Category: Gundam SEED, Halo
Genre: Alien Biology, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Crossover, Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Genetic Engineering, Paramilitary, Science Fiction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-05-11
Updated: 2005-05-11
Packaged: 2017-10-12 11:21:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,284
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/124320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Experimental/pseuds/Experimental
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Athrun's estranged father returns with a new superweapon and hopes of defeating the ruthless Covenant. Le Creuset, naturally, has other plans. (SEED characters in Halo universe.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Jonah and the Whalestone

**Author's Note:**

> This little experiment is set in the _Halo_ universe, an attempt to explore some of the themes of _SEED_ —namely separatist movements, genetic engineering, extraterrestrials, and Le Creuset's radical misanthropy—within the confines of _Halo_ and its mythology. Therefore some basic knowledge of _Halo_ and _Halo 2_ is recommended for full effect, but if anyone would just like to read it on its own merits they should find it relatively accessible.

_Once again the Lord spoke to Jonah. He said,  
"Go to Nineveh, that great city, and proclaim to the people  
the message I have given you."  
So Jonah obeyed the Lord and went to Nineveh . . .  
and after walking a whole day, he proclaimed,  
"In forty days Nineveh will be destroyed!"_  
—Jonah 3:1-4

 _"Beware of false prophets,  
who come to you in sheep's clothing but inwardly are ravenous wolves."_  
—Matthew 7:15

* * *

"It must be quite something to see one's father again after such a long period of absence," said Le Creuset. "How long has it been since you've spoken in person?"

"Four years, three months and seventeen days," Athrun answered mechanically to his back. Apparently, he had been thinking about it himself.

As the elevator glided quietly up its shaft, Le Creuset smiled, and the material of the mask that covered his eyes glinted slightly with the movement of his muscles. Though he was unsure of the meaning behind it, Athrun found himself resenting his commanding officer's reaction.

"I can imagine," Le Creuset went on, "the anxiety one must feel in a situation like this, meeting with one's maker, the person who gave you life. You two must have so much on your minds you've wanted to say."

"Not I. I don't even know him."

"That's what you say."

"I appreciate your concern, sir, but I don't feel much of anything." Athrun looked out the side of the car and watched the lights that dropped down past them in regular intervals. He hoped the other would forgive his frankness when he said, "That man is no more than a stranger to me."

"Perhaps you're right," said Le Creuset, and nothing more. He merely clasped his hands behind his back.

Athrun shifted trying not to appear uncomfortable at their small talk. Was it another one of his commander's trials, he wondered, to test his reaction to these sensitive subjects? If that were the case he would not give in so easily. He and his teammates had heard enough over the years of training regarding Commander Rau Le Creuset to form their own conclusions; but whatever the truth behind it, his physical condition seemed to be a reminder of their tenuous position. His mind was sharp as a whip, but his frame as frail as one, it seemed, with periodic fits that were kept hidden from them and the mysterious mask pointing toward an earlier generation of genetic engineering—when procedures were more hit and miss, and outlawed for precisely that reason.

Was that why Athrun and his teammates, whom he had grown up with as brothers, had been placed under the leadership of this man? It seemed to him that rather they were Le Creuset's punishment—a constant reminder of what he could have been, and how technology had failed him. Surely he must have resented Athrun a bit for that.

"Here we are," Le Creuset said at last. A second later the elevator glided to a stop. The door slid open with a _thuck_ and the commander strode into the room, making no gesture to indicate he cared whether the other followed.

It was a large room they had arrived at, dark with a high ceiling. Fixtures set high above their heads in pillars cast a dim light over the space. The periphery was vague and smooth, quite unlike the hard and well-lit industrial interiors of the installations and ships with which Athrun was familiar. The seamless black, polished floor made their footsteps echo dully in the space. Out the large window on the opposite side was the gas giant Junius, and in the foreground its seventh moon, now a dead marble of green and violet glass. A desk like a monolith sat in front of the view, and on the wall perpendicular to that, hung from the ceiling by strong cables, was a giant slab of shale. Raised like a bas relief from the stone was the titanic fossil skeleton of some creature Athrun did not recognize. Its shape was that of a whale, but the skeletal structure was like no mammal's ever known. Furthermore, in place of fins, long and thin appendages like wings extended upwards from behind the skull.

The young man looked up at it as he stopped before the desk, knowing not what to think.

"It's fascinating, isn't it?" came a low, rich voice. "They call it a whale stone. But you might say it's somewhat of a miracle."

It came from a man who was sitting in a chair beside the desk. He did not rise at the newcomers' approach, but his genial look erased any rudeness in this manner of greeting. He was missing an arm on one side, the sleeve of his uniform pinned in half at the shoulder, and the corresponding eye was permanently closed with a jagged scar. He could have worn prosthetics with his wound, but for some reason he did not. If he were standing, Athrun could see he would have been easily over two meters tall. His hair was rakish, his sideburns grown wild, and similarly he had a cocky smile that was at the same time warm. "You must be Athrun," he said.

Le Creuset introduced them. "Athrun, this is Andrew. And you know Admiral Zala."

Only then did Athrun turn his attention to the man seated behind the desk. His age was perhaps around fifty, though the light could have been solely responsible for the gray tinge to his hair and the war for the lines in his face. It was a stern and dignified face, once handsome, and one Athrun should have known well but still seemed to be that of a stranger. His uniform was the dark gray of an officer of ONI, but Athrun knew not to be fooled by appearances. His very existence told a different story.

Zala glanced in his direction. "It's been a while," he said to Le Creuset.

Feeling a chill rise from within him, Athrun glared. "Father. . . ."

"I thought you had forgotten how to call me that," said Admiral Zala with a false tone of surprise.

"And I thought you had forgotten I was your son."

From the sidelines, Le Creuset grinned at his temerity.

"Watch your manners, Athrun," the admiral chastised him, "and remember whom you're speaking to."

Athrun straightened but failed to salute. "Yes, sir."

Zala seemed to bide his time before continuing, the look of displeasure hard to leave his face. "Athrun, do you know where you are?"

"Aboard an installation in orbit of Junius Seven, sir. But . . ." he hesitated, "if I may say so, sir, we had been informed all settlements in the Junius system were wiped out by the Covenant several years ago."

"That is correct. And it is because the Junius system is dead that it makes the perfect site for the culmination of all our efforts. There has never been an instance of the Covenant returning to a world they have glassed, and ONI's official records of this place end with their last attack. Because it would be fruitless for either to return here our location is perfectly hidden from both sides of this war.

"Officially," he told Athrun pointedly, "this installation does not exist. But then, officially, neither do you. "

"Then, may I ask, sir, what my team and I are doing here?"

Zala unlaced his fingers where they were held balanced over the table. "This installation—Morgenroete—will be your new home for the final phase of training," he said as he tapped keys projected over the desk in an absent manner. "Thus far, the SEED project has proven a remarkable success. You and your comrades have shown no abnormalities or adverse effects, but have reached a level of mental capacity to exceed our expectations. You are, just as we made you to be, truly superior to natural humans."

The SEED project. Also known among those who knew them intimately as Coordinators. That was the name given to Athrun and his teammates. No one had ever made any effort to hide from them the facts of their existence. A tight inner faction of the Office of Naval Intelligence, off-world born themselves and sympathetic to hidden factions of rebels who sought independence from the Earth government, skeptical of AIs and encouraged by the success of genetic experiments carried out in secret, had thought to take the development of the ultimate warrior—and human evolution—one giant step further. Though genetic engineering was outlawed, they perfected the technique in their hidden laboratories, producing designer babies whose brain function was increased to the point the individual's reaction time was more like a computer's than a human's. A living CPU. The members of this faction, a short list of high ranking insiders with Patrick Zala as their leader, volunteered their own genes for the SEEDs.

However, whether it was the ultimate form of patriotism, this creation of super-intelligent soldiers from their own blood, or the ultimate act of hubris, the children of SEED could not say. No matter how grateful they were supposed to be to these people who were little more than annual video birthday cards in their lives, or shadowy figures behind glass, they could not completely erase the feeling deep down of resentment for their parents' selfishness.

Perhaps they were only being selfish themselves. They were humanity's other last hope against the Covenant, the intellectual counterpart to ONI's SPARTAN program—legendary figures to them whose superhuman strength forged by intense physical training and ceramic-encased skeletons mirrored their own situation less than the comaraderie that had welded them into a solid surrogate family. Yet up until now, the purpose of the countless simulations on which they had been raised at Mendel had remained a mystery. What use were Coordinators to this war in which AIs governed the lightning-quick processes of navigation and strategy? Each one came with too hefty a pricetag to be wasted as a mere Longsword pilot.

A display appeared on a digital screen that hovered above the admiral's desk. Images of what appeared to be a new type of armored suit, like those worn by the SPARTANs but much more specialized, flashed by one after the other in slow progression. As Athrun glanced at them wondering how they were to don these whimsical suits, Zala leaned back and said pointedly:

"What you're looking at are the designs of a new machine called the Aegis, a mobile suit developed at this hidden installation in cooperation with Orb—"

" _Orb_?" Athrun could not help his outburst of surprise. "But we were told Orb was a rebel organization, opposed to the idea of assisting the Earth government in this war under any circumstances."

"For most separatist factions, that is still the case. But Orb, at least, has seen the reason in joining forces with Earth. They've recognized it as the moral imperative it is. Would they be able to call themselves members of the human race if they did not also answer the call to defend it? Just as we have defended them for years while they sat back philosophizing? This is the path Orb has chosen to repay our generosity. Their people may still refuse to enlist, but they can at least provide us with the technology to turn the tide of this war against the Covenant. With the resources provided by Chief Representative Uzumi Atha at our request, humanity may actually stand a fighting chance against their heavy artillery."

Perhaps it was the way he phrased it as a preacher might, as though it were the separatists who should be thankful to the Earth military rather than the other way around, that made a knowing grin break upon Le Creuset's already perpetually omnipotent lips. Andrew's own amused expression seemed to lose its sincerity at those remarks, but fell short of disappointment. It was that same overtone of zealousness that had long occupied Athrun's vision of his father during their periods of separation, so prominently it was difficult to imagine him any other way. There was something about it that put him on edge, but he shrugged that feeling off.

Blind to all of this, Zala continued: "It is only a shame we cannot reveal your efforts to the Earth government just yet. It would only cause a distraction that humanity cannot afford at this hour. But if your team does not disappoint us, and our investment pulls through to put this war to a swift end, surely they will have no choice but to recognize the rights of the separatists to live independent of Earth rule."

Athrun glanced up from the technical display. "Sir, what will you have us do?"

* * *

" _These_ are what you will each be piloting: the General Unilateral Neuro-link Dispersive Autonomic Maneuver system units," the civilian woman wearing Orb's red jacket who had introduced herself as Erica Simmons said to those who had gathered before her. "We call them GUNDAMs for short."

They were in a hangar of the Morgenroete installation, walking slowly down a wide catwalk that extended down the length of the chamber as she spoke. On either side were the machines to which she referred with a professional but sweeping gesture: towering gray humanoid machines like giant suits of armor, each standing between eighteen and nineteen meters tall, staring across the group at one another with perfectly emotionless, stylized features. As she came to a stop, so did the handful of teenagers who followed her, but their attention was clearly fixed on the machines.

They all fell around sixteen years of age, the first generation of the SEED program, the offspring of ONI's more zealous inner echelons. Yzak, Dearka, Nicol, Rusty and Lacus—their names suggested backgrounds as diverse as the settled galaxy. All except the last one were male, but that would change with time. They had successors waiting in the wings, in libraries and simulators back on Mendel, should this mission prove successful. A plethora of specimens bred from other eager participants, sacrifices for the war effort.

"Each model is designed for use in space as well as planetside," Simmons continued, "and is equipped with Phase Shift Armor, a defense system based on Covenant shield technology that deflects projectiles and can withstand an attack by energy weapons for a certain length of time. It operates on slightly different principles from the personal shields generated by an Elite's body armor. There is no field that can be disrupted by contact with solid objects as the Phase Shifting is a part of the armor itself.

"In addition to the normal projectile arms, the GUNDAM is equipped with an array of plasma weaponry, which we developed from artillery recovered by Orb and the Earth military from destroyed ships and confiscated small arms. We've equipped the Buster, for example—" She indicated a suit with a crest so elongated as to make it seem the suit had antennae. "—with an adjustable beam cannon the max output of which is equivalent to that of a Covenant Scarab's main cannon. The Blitz has a special shield like those used by Covenant spec ops that renders the suit invisible until contact with significant physical force is applied, making the suit perfect for those delicate missions were extreme caution and stealth are necessary. . . ."

"Yeah, perfect for a coward," the young man called Dearka said under his breath, but it was not without some humor. He tilted his head toward a comrade who stood somewhat shorter next to him. "That one's yours, Nicol."

Nicol nudged him hard in the arm and they moved forward again.

"Now, if you will please follow me to the maneuverability testing chamber," Simmons said when they had reached the end of the hangar, "you will be able to see one of these bad boys in action."

As they passed under the gazes of the last two GUNDAMs, two figures standing on an adjacent catwalk caught their attention. They were two girls about the same age as they were—one blond, the other with brown hair flipped up, both wearing the same short red jacket with its Orb insignia as Erica Simmons. They watched the SEEDs with an expression that was at once fascinated and suspicious. Were the girls expecting the Coordinators about whom they had heard rumors to look different from them, Lacus wondered as they passed. They caught Dearka's attention as well, but obviously for other reasons, as his wide grin attested when he put a conspiratorial hand on Yzak's shoulder.

"Is Orb actually expecting us to use these things in battle?" said a woman with short dark hair to her companions in the observation room as they looked out the large window at the GUNDAM model called Freedom that waited there—a name, they had to agree, that was appropriate coming from a group of separatists. She could not quite keep the tone of distrust that was as old as the colonization of space from creeping into her voice.

"Why? You don't trust their engineering?" a rakish blond man asked from behind her.

It seemed to take her aback, but only momentarily. "That's not it. Although I do wonder, if the technology to create fully bipedal machines of that thing's size existed all along, why didn't we do anything about it before?" She emphasized the 'we' slightly, meaning by it Earth's navy, the prowess of which had had so many holes blown in it by the Covenant, the last thing it needed was another one courtesy of one former insurgent organization that just now decided to come out of hiding. "Where was that technology for Junius Seven?"

The third of their party began to open her mouth to reply, but the hiss of the door opening cut short their chatter. And by the silence and the looks they shot the teenagers who entered the room behind Simmons, the five instinctively knew they had been, if not the subject of conversation, the subject of the officers' trains of thought.

That brief awkward spell was broken by Simmons, however, who wasted no time introducing them. "Gentlemen, Lacus, meet Captain Murrue Ramius and Commander Natarle Badgiruel," she said, indicating the two women dressed in the formal white jackets and slacks of the Earth navy, the latter also wearing the white cap. "They will be in command of the new carrier _Archangel_ that will transport you on your missions."

"And what a ship she is," said the blond man with a daring grin. "She can outrun, out-gun and out-maneuver any of those old bricks in Lord Hood's arsenal. Aren't you going to introduce me, Erica?"

"Mu La Flaga, Longsword pilot," Simmons said disinterestedly, but La Flaga took it in good humor. "I suppose you three are here for the show as well. Well, let's not keep you waiting any longer."

She touched a button on the control panel. "Whenever you're ready, Kira."

There was a brief, muffled "Roger" from their teammate and then the suit on the other side of the large glass window—now vibrantly colored in blue and white—began to move as though with a life of its own. Indeed, the movements were lacking in almost any visible hesitation, even as it crouched and dashed forward, or unsheathed its sword and swung a few practice moves, or brought its main-firing guns into position. Each of these actions had the fluidity and control of a soldier or a martial artist who was comfortable with them after many repetitions—which Kira and his comrades were after countless simulations, but it was certainly not the range or apparent ease of movement one would have expected from a seventy-ton bipedal machine.

After a short while, Simmons bent over the panel again to say, "That's enough for one day, Kira, thank you. How does it feel?"

"A bit sluggish," came the reply, "now that I've gotten used to the controls."

"That can be corrected in the OS. But that's good. That means you're adjusting rapidly."

She continued as much for the other Coordinators' sakes as his: "The level of maneuverability had to be set lower for our initial test pilots; it was a struggle for them to keep up with the suits' reaction times. But that should prove no problem for Coordinators such as yourselves. You see, unlike MJOLNIR armor, a GUNDAM can be personalized, if you will, to match the skill level of its pilot, making it an incredibly versatile machine. Our long-term goal is that with sufficient training, and the right amount of compensation on the part of the operating system, even an average Longsword pilot will be more than adequately able to control a GUNDAM."

It wasn't certain whether the slight edge in her voice at this last point was meant for La Flaga, but there was something of a boyish anticipation in his expression as he looked out at the GUNDAM. "It should become an extension of the pilot himself," he finished for her.

"Right."

"So, when do we get to try these out in real combat?" said Rusty.

It was Ramius who answered. "For your first mission you are charged with the protection of Nineveh," she said. "We have received intelligence from a reliable source that suggests the Covenant are planning an attack there."

"You mean glass the planet?" said Lacus.

Erica Simmons nodded. "Unfortunately, the powers that be have chosen to ignore the warning signs. Either they do not see them as a significant threat, in which case we sound like we're no more than crying wolf to them, or they see Nineveh as an unfortunate but necessary sacrifice." What they understood without words was that trying to stop the glassing of a planet was a losing battle. Even if a few Covenant vessels could be destroyed, the cost to human personnel and resources would be more than the war effort could afford.

"Admiral Zala, however," she continued, "sees differently. The people of that planet must be prepared for evacuation. If the Covenant does order an attack, you can count on this: it will be swift."

Yzak allowed a smile to turn up one corner of his mouth. "It doesn't sound like anything we can't handle."

On the other side of the glass, the GUNDAM returned to its resting, monotone gray. The cockpit nestled in the chest opened and the pilot, Kira, stood on the open hatch to look up at the huddle of his teammates' figures inside the control booth where one was missing.

* * *

At the end of Patrick Zala's brief, silence descended in the black room. With the press of a key the GUNDAM's image was extinguished from the screen. Folding his hands once again, he said, "There is one last thing. I am putting you, as my son, in charge of your team, Athrun. It will be less hassle for all parties involved if you can report directly to me. I don't suppose you have any objections."

He did, in fact—personally, he didn't want the responsibility, especially if it were to be handed out so arbitrarily, nor did he think he was the best cut out for it: Kira and Lacus had shown him up long ago in the leadership department, and Yzak's displeasure might cause a problem for their ability to work as a team—but voicing any of them would have been futile. "No, sir."

"Admiral," Andrew said suddenly as though just remembering, "permission to speak to Athrun alone?"

Zala began to open his mouth, perhaps to object, glancing at Andrew carefully so as to determine his motive. After a while, however, he said, "Granted," and stood behind the desk. Le Creuset gestured with one arm in a manner that seemed almost insubordinate in its grandness as he said, "Sir, this way, if you please."

When they had left, Andrew unfolded his body from the chair. Just as Athrun had guessed, he was unusually tall, standing just over two meters in height. He had a towering presence as well, but when he spoke, looking over Athrun's shoulder, it was with a frankness and amiable quality one would not have expected from Admiral Zala's shadow.

Instead of calling Athrun's bluff, however, he began, addressing the slate slab: "You may as well know, this whale stone was discovered during the settling of Nineveh. Like I said before, call it a miracle. Ever since mankind began penetrating deeper into the galaxy, the discovery of planet Edens has been one of the greatest mysteries. In geology, climate, vegetation these worlds should have been well into the Cenozoic in age, relatively, but in fauna they were Permian—Triassic at best. No large animal life, in the seas or on land; nothing with any more intelligence than a Stegosaurus. That's a discrepancy of at least a hundred million years. Developers didn't think much of it because, as far as they were concerned, a planet already capable of sustaining human life with no large predators was a paradise. Of course, this was before we knew of the Covenant or the Forerunners. Then Nineveh turned everything on its head.

"Look closely. It's called a whale stone, but does that look like any whale you've ever seen?"

Athrun didn't have to look for very long to have an answer. "No, sir. It doesn't."

"Of course it doesn't," Andrew affirmed. "It doesn't look like any animal on Earth. This fossil, whatever it used to be, is proof—cold, solid evidence that advanced life once existed on that planet. It wasn't just these pseudo-whales, either. Fossil evidence of all sorts of large body types has been found at Nineveh dating far back into its history. Around one hundred thousand years ago it all stops. From then on the fossil record consists of small fish and reptiles and mollusks. No one knows what happened to the rest."

"One hundred thousand years ago. . . ." Athrun furrowed his brows. "Isn't that the date archaeologists are giving to the disappearance of the Forerunner race?" Then it all clicked. "Wait. You aren't suggesting," he said slowly, "that their disappearance and the mass extinction on Nineveh are related."

Andrew smiled. "That's exactly what I'm suggesting, my brainy friend. Not just related, but possibly connected. So, you see now why we have a stake in the fate of Nineveh. It's not just the human settlements there, either. There's a crucial piece missing to this puzzle and we're running out of time to find it. Something exterminated that creature," he said nodding to the whale stone, "and it might be the same thing that caused the Forerunners to disappear. If that is the case, we need to know if it could happen again, before the Covenant do."

He left that ominous thought hanging in the air between them, and thinking it over Athrun turned his gaze to the polished floor and the reflection of Junius in it and began to pace. "For a first mission," he mumbled after a moment, "you guys sure ask a lot. Seven of us against an armada of Covenant destroyers, if worst comes to it. No one's ever stopped a planet from being glassed, once the Covies set their minds to it."

"Hm." Andrew cocked his head. "You don't think you can do it? Well, you're not AIs—"

"We're better than AIs," Athrun corrected as he raised his head. "That's what Zala says and that's what we were designed to be, so of course we can do it. We can do anything you want. We have to give the investors their money's worth."

There was such bitterness in his words and defiance in his eyes that Andrew couldn't help an amused chuckle, even if it was at the boy's expense. "You really are something else, Athrun Zala," he said shaking his head.

Athrun did not find it quite so amusing. "I've been made well aware of that. It seems to be a term of our conditioning, to know just how unique we are. No one calls me by that name. Zala."

"Of course. For your own protection—"

"For my _father's_ protection."

"Then that's another thing we have in common, you and I." The amused smile remained on Andrew's lips, but his manner was sincere as he continued. "Neither of us will ever be dignified with a family name to pass on to the next generation, because neither of us will ever be seen as a normal human being."

"Then you are—" Athrun started to say, but modesty cut him short.

Andrew chuckled. "You noticed. I guess that's not difficult. Yes, I'm a SPARTAN. Second generation. At least I was." He made no indication to his empty sleeve and its missing arm, yet somehow he knew Athrun's train of thought. "A Grunt with a fuel-rod cannon cut that career short, but when one door closes another one opens. Isn't that how the saying goes?"

Athrun turned his eyes. "Zala. . . ."

"They told me I was lucky to only lose my arm."

"Couldn't you have gone back?" Athrun asked, meeting his eyes. "Not that it's any of my business, but I know I'd want to be with my teammates if there were still a chance I could help them. Why work for Patrick Zala, of all people?"

"It wasn't an easy decision to make," Andrew told him. "For our first mission, my team and I were sent to apprehend the leaders of a rebel faction not unlike Orb that was hiding out in some asteroid belt. A lot of their people were killed in the process, but that wasn't important. The important thing was that we were ready to face the Covenant. Those who made us knew all along that it would be only a matter of time before the need to expand brought our civilizations into contact. A few dozen insurgents' lives measured not even a drop in the bucket."

There was no hint of remorse for the past in his eyes that held Athrun's, just the intensity of conviction as he spoke of the future. "We are not people to them, Athrun. Just a means to an end. They weigh us down with their hopes and expectations, they believe that we can save them, but as long as we exist there will be those who hate us just because of what we are. Because we're superior. Because, like that thing on that slab up there, they can't quite call us human."

Athrun briefly glanced up at the whale stone again, and at the grotesque facial features and plate-like skin that suggested a much less complicated struggle for survival. "Why are you telling me all this? You know you're just preaching to the choir."

Andrew straightened. If he could have crossed his arms, doubtless he would have. "I think you deserve a fair warning," Andrew told him. "After all, you Coordinators have quite a stake in the outcome of this war. I'd like to believe in humanity as much as anyone—believe we're fighting the Covenant because there's something worth saving—but the truth is, if humans do survive, the peace that comes at the end of it won't last long before those issues put on the back burner will _have_ to be addressed. Before long people will find new reasons to kill one another. Reasons like us, and the separatists. And the fruits of your father's labor will only become fuel for the fire. We'll be fighting for our survival all over again, and the weapons that are supposed to save us now will be turned against us. The same principle that applies to this war will apply to the next: neither side will rest until its enemy is completely eliminated."

* * *

Le Creuset's Morgenroete cabin remained dark as he entered it, exhausted from his meeting with Zala, not bothering to turn on the lights as he sat down heavily in his chair and opened the desk drawer. He shook two pills out of a small brown bottle and held them on his tongue as he poured a glass of water from the pitcher on the desk, then knocked the whole thing back. He could not feel the effects of the drugs just yet, but he sighed with relief anyway, knowing he would be fine a little while longer, and that the trembling in his hands would soon cease.

He leaned his head back on the headrest and closed his eyes for a minute. Then a flash of pale red light opened up in the room that he registered behind his closed eyelids. "Hello, Flay," he drawled.

"Welcome home, sir," came the high, demure voice from no direction in particular. The thing that had produced it, however, was the holographic self-image of the AI standing on its small platform on the desk. It was the image of a sixteen-year-old girl with magenta hair that fell just over her shoulders, dressed in the style of a flight stewardess. Fluctuations of reds indicating some digital processes passed regularly and seemingly randomly over her clothes. Though her lips moved to speak to Le Creuset, her eyes remained downcast, as though staring at something before her knees. "Did your meeting go well?"

"As well as I could have hoped," he said ambiguously. "Do you have something for me?"

"Well . . ."

AI though she was she hesitated, and, feeling a twinge of sadistic amusement, he couldn't help prodding: "Now, Flay, you'd better not be trying to keep something from me. You know you're a terrible liar, even for a program. Have you retrieved the information I requested or haven't you?"

"I have, as per your query this morning. —But the files you requested are classified top secret by the Office of Naval Intelligence on Reach. Neither of us has the proper clearance to access them."

"Don't get penitent on me now, Flay. Your job is to follow orders—which I appreciate you doing very much—not dwell on the ethical ramifications. You just leave that part up to me, hm?" he said gently as he brought the information up himself on the screen. "I assume you slipped in and out of their systems without leaving them any little trails of bread crumbs to follow back here."

Flay was silent as he skimmed over the hacked files. Eyes that looked perpetually poised to speak, a strange expression to be fixed even on an AI avatar's face, rose in his direction for a brief moment, before falling back to their original place.

The files he had requested were those that had to do with this concept of the Covenant's that came up again and again: the Great Journey. The official story was that it was some sort of spiritual salvation that the leaders of the alien alliance, whom the humans were calling the Prophets, were looking to gain out of this war. But assumptions that it was a metaphysical thing, and not an actual physical eschatological occurrence they were waiting for, seemed inconsistent to Le Creuset. If it were only spiritual transfiguration, the argument they used to justify their war that mankind was conscientiously impeding their progress to it held very little water, even coming from religious zealots.

His scanning gaze hit upon something curious. He raised his brows. "This is new."

Flay suddenly looked interested. She turned her head as though to look at the screen, though the action was only for Le Creuset's benefit.

"What is?"

"These intercepted communiques mention something called 'the Holy Ring.' I wonder if that is an accurate translation. . . . In any case, is it supposed to be some sort of Forerunner artifact?"

"I don't know, sir, but that would seem correct from the context. It doesn't match the description of any of the artifacts in our possession, though."

"No. That's just what I was thinking." He sat back, rubbing his hand over his jaw absently. The extinct alien race the Covenant called the Forerunner and practically worshiped as gods themselves had left strange artifacts bearing unintelligible geometric designs scattered like broken glass all over the galaxy; but so far none of them was shaped like a ring. He read further. The Covenant hierarchs were searching desperately for this ring—or rings; that part seemed unclear—without which they could not begin the Great Journey. And they believed humans were sitting on the key that would lead them to it. So that's what it was! That was what all of this was about.

"So," he began again as though to himself, "it would seem that the key to ending this war lies with this 'Holy Ring,' this . . . Halo, if you will—whatever it really is. If only there were a means to help them unlock that door. . . ."

"Sir," said Flay slowly, "I'm afraid I don't understand what you mean by that metaphor."

But it was a different thought that preoccupied him. " 'Those who worship worthless idols have abandoned their loyalty to you,' " he murmured absently to himself as he leaned back in his chair. " 'But I will offer you a sacrifice and do what I have promised.' " The Covenant that lit up one planet after the next indiscriminately; the hierarchs of Earth's government that put down the slightest opposition to its hegemony; the separatist insurgents who stockpiled nuclear weapons against them; most of all the scientists who committed their acts of hubris in the secret laboratories of Mendel saying it was for the good of mankind—there was not one of them that didn't deserve to go the way of the Forerunners before them. There was not one that didn't deserve to suffer for their sins while he, who had committed none, suffered anyway.

"Sir?" Flay said again, missing some relevance.

Le Creuset smiled as he erased the stolen files from his computer. "Never mind."

The date was April 12, 2552.


End file.
